


Before The Storm

by FreakshowImprov



Series: The Light Forsaken [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, lots of discussion, no spoilers but plenty of irony, takes place before the broken shore, war heroes talk to a noob basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7770046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreakshowImprov/pseuds/FreakshowImprov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Alliance fleet approaches the Tomb of Sargeras, a nineteen year old priest, an ancient paladin, and a worgen death knight deal with the thought of impending death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Warcraft fic, but I've been into the games since I was four year old playing Warcraft 2 and yelling "ZUG ZUG" at my dad, and I've written a bunch.
> 
> This is sort of a test fic. I'm considering writing something much longer with more of an actual original plot, so I wanted to write this to see if there's any real interest for something like that. It would likely feature these characters plus some others, so please let me know what you think of them and my writing in the comments! I'm not holding anything hostage, but comments would make me more likely to want to try something bigger.
> 
> This takes place on the voyage to the Broken Shore.

The _Silver Goddess_ was one of the finest ships in the Alliance fleet, but no amount of comfort could make it feel any less like a tomb.

The once opulent craft was a converted merchant ship, and the navy hadn't quite been able to scrub the goblin charm from its interior.  The walls were richly painted, the furnishings were more luxurious than any on a true warship could ever aspire to be, but the ceilings and doorways were built a bit too small for any but the gnomes and dwarves to be comfortable.  And the draenei?  Mardynn didn't know how they'd survive the trip.

The ship creaked like an old woman’s joints, the painted hull rolling up and down in the stormy sea.  Up, up, up… then a sickening downward lurch as the ship rode down the next wave.  Half the soldiers aboard were seasick, and the rest huddled belowdecks where the sound of the rain pounding above was nearly enough to drive a person mad.  At least the cannons were properly lashed down, Mardynn thought wearily, she'd helped see to that.  She wasn't a sailor, but she knew a thing or two about knots.  One of the only things she remembered from her days as a fisherman’s daughter in Westfall.  

She could deal with a canoe, or a riverboat.  She could even deal with a ship like this, on a clear day.  But the open ocean, in a storm like this?  She was better off dead, she thought.  She was curled in a ball on her bed, knees on her chest and hands over her legs, struggling to keep her roiling stomach calm.  The nausea and disorientation mixed with the abject terror of what was to come to form a cocktail of sheer misery, the likes of which she'd hadn't felt in as long as she could remember.

The Burning Legion had returned.  

She had been an ordained priest for barely more than a year, a girl of no more than nineteen.  The Alliance must be truly desperate to enlist people like her to assault their beachhead on the Broken Isles.

“We’re all going to die,” she whispered.  Not to either of her bunk mates.  It was a simple declaration of fact.  

The Draenei on the bed next to her shifted.  He glanced over at her with calm, glowing blue eyes and smiled, running an oiled cloth gently over the ornate sword on his lap.  “I have faced the Legion before.” His accent was thick, but he got the words right, which was more than many Draenei could say.  He wore simple brown clothing, same as the rest of them, and horn jutted straight out from the back of his head.  A heavy shield that Mardynn doubted she could lift with both hands leaned against his bunk.  “Dozens of times.  Hundreds.  In the Light, there is always a way to survive.”

A rough snort came from behind her - she'd turned to look at the draenei - and she jumped.  It was a monstrous sound, and she'd almost forgotten who stood there in the shadows.  And the man there _was_ a monster.  One who seemed to stand against all she'd ever been taught.  A man in the shape of a wolf, his dark fur musty and rough, leaning back against the wall.  He was laughing, one sharp clawed hand covering his snout.  She’d only been close to him once, but even that was enough to know that he smelled of blood.  “You light-blighted goody two-shoes are all the same.” His eyes glowed blue as well, but where the draenei’s were warm and comforting, the worgen’s were cold as a glacier, and hungry.  Mardynn always felt like he was watching her for weakness whenever he was near.  “You could die, paladin.  I could die.  The little Light-loving girlie here could die.  That's what war is, friend.  Death and horror and blood.” He almost sounded happy about it.  

The draenei shook his head and went back to his weapon.  “And there are always people like you, to revel in the worst parts of war.  This is not about violence, my friend.  It is about sparing our world from the flame.”

The worgen laughed again.  “Our world?  This isn't your world, alien.”

Mardynn’s eyes widened.   _Alien_ was considered one of the most offensive things you could call a Draenei - though technically, she had to admit, it was true - but the paladin seemed unfazed.  He tilted his head toward her, smiling again.  “What is your name?”

“Mar-” She cleared her throat.  “Mardynn.  But my friends call me Mary.”

The paladin reached out and took her hand, plucking it from her knee with one huge, muscular hand.  His skin was as warm as his eyes.  “It is a pleasure, then, Mary.  My name is Ehldrenor.  In our language, it means something like… How do you say?   _Exile’s shield._  I try to live up to my name.  When we reach the shore, stay with me.  I will keep you safe.”

The worgen rolled his eyes.  “Yes, stand behind the meat shield.  I’m sure he'll do wonders protecting you with a doomguard’s sword between his ribs.” He coughed.  “Islorus, by the way.  Not that I'll see any of you deadies again before the end.” His voice was oddly hollow, modulated, almost like someone growling into a tin cup.  His Gilnean accent was nearly as thick as Ehldrenor’s.

Mardynn thought she would have been okay without ever hearing his name, but she didn't dare say that out loud.  The Worgen would probably eat her - especially if he was a death knight, as she more than suspected he was.  One raised from the dead to serve as the Lich King’s slave - but the death knights had won their freedom a long time ago.  They were so dark though.  A void in the light.  How could she trust a creature like that?

The Light was all she knew.  All she loved.  All she had left.  She’d left home to join the Northshire Abbey as a child, not long before the Cataclysm.  She’d been raised a true believer, and with a few whispered words she could knit broken bones, mend torn flesh, grant courage to a broken heart.

Well, to any but herself, she supposed.  “I’ve never fought anyone before.”  She sat up, pulling her shirt down over her legs.  “I've never… never _hurt_ anyone before.  I never wanted to.”

“Great.  The runt’s a bloody pacifist.”

They ignored him.

Ehldrenor was back to polishing his sword.  “You are a priest, yes?”

She nodded.

“I feel your strength in the Light, as I suspect you could through me in time.  We are all of the Light.  You are taught to heal.  There will be a great deal of that needed, once battle begins.”

Islorus started to pace restlessly.  “Do you think the demons will give you time to sit back and heal the wounded?  Do you think the demons will _leave_ wounded?” He snapped his jaws with a loud click, as if to demonstrate.  “They're here because they're hungry, loves.”

Mardynn furrowed her brow for a moment, leafing through her history, then turned to the worgen.  “You haven't fought the Legion either, have you?  You Gilneans ran and hid last time they came.”

Those cruel blue eyes narrowed.  “You’ll want to watch what you say to me, girl.  We Gilneans had our own problems to deal with.”. He turned his head away, almost as if embarrassed.  “Not that I was there.”

Ehldrenor sighed quietly.  “The Gilnean wall did not come down until after the Lich King fell, and yet, you are both worgen and death knight.  Twice cursed by darkness.  How did this happen?”

“Long story.” Islorus waved a deadly hand as casually as one might swat a gnat.  “A dark mage named Arugal was twisting men into beasts like me.  I died under his thrall.  We worgen death knights are few, but were among the Lich King’s elites.  You should know this.”

“Something to be proud of, I’m sure.”

“Wait,” Mardynn said.  “You're dodging the issue.  Ehldrenor, here-” she stumbled over the name a little “-I can believe he’s fought the Legion.  His people have been doing that longer than humans have been on Azeroth.  But you-”

Islorus snarled.  “I don't need to have fought the Legion to know what it's like.  You said it yourself, you've never seen combat at all.  Not even against the living.  You don't have the slightest idea what it's like to be knee deep in the dead.”

“Tell me, then.”

Islorus grinned.  A hunter’s grin.  “I was in Icecrown Citadel the day it fell.  Have you ever even seen Saronite, little girl?  It _whispers_ to you.  Looking at it twists your stomach.  And it has a smell.” He tapped his nose.  “Rot. Decay. If the screams of the damned had a smell, it had sunk into that devil’s iron.  And here was an entire _fortress_ made of the bloody stuff.  A constant drumbeat in your head driving you to kill, to drive your sword into your friends and tear into their flesh with your bare hands and drink their hot blood as it steams in that freezing air.” He shuddered, but not with horror.  “The gate broke open, and the entrance yawned before us, and a thousand broken eyes stared back, slavering, hungry for flesh.”

Mardynn was mesmerized.  Islorus might be deplorable, but once he got going, he knew how to tell a story.

“The Traitor King Arthas waited at the top, doing the Light only knew what.  Preparing.  Praying to the Old Gods, whose blood suffused the whole damn place, I don't know. But to get to him, we had a Citadel to burn.”  He bared his teeth.  “Ice and Saronite don't burn, girl, but we found a way.”

Ehldrenor rolled his eyes.  “Paltry melodrama.”

Islorus flicked his gaze to the Draenei.  “Ah, so you were there as well?  Perhaps you can tell the curious girl about what it's like to watch your friends die screaming, bones slashed through their armor, only to get right back up and look at you with dead, pale faces, their eyes white, as they come for your blood?  The stitched together horrors that twisted minds like Putricide had brought to life?  What it's like to be swallowed alive, unnatural stomach acid burning every inch of your skin, your fur on fire?” He paused, then leaned in close to Mardynn.  “Or perhaps I should tell you what it was like to see the Lich King himself, lord of all he surveyed, monarch of the grave, standing before you?  How Frostmourne-”

“Enough.  She doesn't need to hear all this.”

The light in Islorus’s eyes seemed to grow brighter.  “To look upon that cursed sword and to know, to know above all other things, that all one had to do was to merely step forward, to take your place by his side, and cut down your companions, to be rewarded and placed above all else?  There were nearly two hundred of us who stormed the gates.  Thirty six of us made it to the Frozen Throne.  Nine went mad in an instant, and we had to kill our own.”

Mardynn’s eyes were wide.  Horror ate at her gut, but it had distracted her from the immediate terror of the invasion.  “How did you do it?  He…” The name ‘Arthas’ was rarely spoken in Stormwind.  When it was, it was spoken of in whispers.  The kind that sounded like they were afraid of being heard by something terrifying.  As if by saying his name, he would come for them, like a boogeyman in the night.  “They said he was so powerful.”

Islorus was silent for a moment, clearly lost in thought.  “That's the thing they never told anyone.  We _didn't._ ”

Mardynn blinked.  “What?”

Ehldrenor just kept polishing his sword, with a quiet swipe, swipe, swipe.

Overhead, thunder boomed, rattling the close quarters of the walls.  The lantern shimmied precariously.  Mardynn thought a quick prayer to the Light that it wouldn't go out - she wouldn't last a minute in this room in pitch darkness.

“We fought with everything we had.  We just kept hitting him.  Swords, hammers, fire, ice.  None of it laid even a scratch on him.  He was fast, too.  In armor like that, no human should be able to move so fast.  He'd swing once and someone would go down without a limb, swing again and empty someone's guts onto the ground.  Every time it happened, they died in pain, and every time, their very _soul_ was sucked into that sword of his.  You could see it happen, and every time, you could _feel_ their screams of agony in your _head.”_ He slammed a fist into his forehead with a crack.  “We fought, and died, and died, and died.  And every time someone went down, he moved a little faster.  Hit a little harder.  And all the time, the cold was eating at our resolve, the lack of oxygen making you giddy.  One son of a bitch couldn't take it.  Threw himself off the side of the Lightdamned citadel and onto the Saronite spikes below.”

Ehldrenor winced.  “That is… That would open a man’s soul to the minds of the old gods themselves.  What could drive a man could do such a thing?”

“ _He_ could.” Islorus picked something out of his fur, as though he were bored and relating the weather.  There was something Mardynn could see, though.  Something in the set of his shoulders, maybe.  She wasn't well used to reading worgen body language but how much was he hiding?  How deeply was this affecting him? “He was all but a god among us, and we were children.”

Something deep belowdecks groaned, and Mardynn’s eyes flicked down.  Was that what the demons would sound like, when they swarmed down the beach?  When they-

No. Not now.  Focus on the story.

“If he was so strong, how did you win?”

He snarled.  “I told you.  We _didn’t._  There were five of us left.  Five.  Out of two hundred.  Plus old Tirion, but he was stuck in a block of ice.  Arthas wanted him to watch.” Islorus was quiet.  “He just.  Raised his sword.” He lifted his arm to demonstrate.  “And we died.  All five of us.  No sound, no fanfare.  One moment we were there, and the next we weren't.”

“You mean he knocked you out?”

“No, I mean he _killed_ us.  Dead.  Gone.”

Mardynn smiled awkwardly.  Was this a joke?

“You've never been dead.  I have.  Twice.”. He shoved an accusatory claw into Mardynn’s chest, stopping just short of drawing blood. “Word to the bloody wise.   _Avoid it.”_  He drew back to the wall. “Tirion did something then.  I don't know what.  He said he called upon the Light, but I've never seen your blessed Light do anything like that before.  All at once, he broke Arthas’ chains, stuffed our bloody souls back into our bodies, and just held Arthas there.  Froze him in invisible bonds.  We didn't know what was going on, but we got up in time to start hitting him.  Again and again.  But this time… this time we were hurting him.  And he was shouting and raging and screaming at us the whole time.”

The infamous traitor king?  Ranting and raving at the end?  This was fascinating.  Horrible to imagine, but fascinating.

“And even locked down like that, his voice was enough to burst an eardrum or two.  The sound was horrific.  And then Tirion… he lifted that sword of his.  The Ashbringer.  And plunged it through Arthas’ chest.”

Ehldrenor.  “And that's all it took?”

“That's all it-” Islorus sputtered.  “That's all it bloody took?”

Mardynn reached out and gently placed a hand on Islorus’ wrist.  It was cold, and the fur felt more like dead grass than a dog’s coat.  She had to repress a shiver.  “It's okay.  The Light knows your pain.  Your struggle.  What you did that day was-”

Islorus swatted her hand away.  “Save your blessings.  I don't need them.  So Arthas died, and-”. He froze, then looked away. “Anyway, that's my story.  I don't need to have killed demons to be ready for this.  More ready than _you._  Do you think you can say the same?”

“I…” Truthfully, she wasn't sure at all of that.  She was a priest, not a paladin.  She'd never been a soldier.  Hell, she'd never even been in a fistfight.  “I have faith in the Light.  If I stand strong, it will protect me.”

Ehldrenor nodded solemnly.  “Just do not forget that the Light helps those who help themselves, child.  Do not only ask for help - act as the Light dictates.”

_Tap.  Tap.  Tap._ Islorus was rapping his fingers on the cold painted wall.  “You're as bad as those treehugging harvest witches.  The Light doesn't protect anyone.”

“Whoa, hold on,” Mardynn said.  “You're kidding, right?  You just told this big horrible story about being saved by the Light!”

“Meh.” Islorus picked at his mane some more.  “I was dead, remember?  I didn't see any bloody Light, then.  For all I know it was a rogue Val’kyr, or one of the Naaru.”

Ehldrenor raised an eyebrow, holding his sword up to glint in the feeble lamplight.  “The Naaru are of the Light, you know.  You contradict yourself even in your denials.” He nodded, as if satisfied, and carefully slid the sword into a battleworn old leather sheath.  He hefted it fondly for a moment, then set it down under the bed. He grabbed the shield next, lifting it to his lap with barely a sign of effort.

“And Tirion is one of the greatest paladins who ever lived! He’s the Light’s champion!  How can you doubt him?” Mardynn’s eyes were suddenly bright.  “He's here, you know!  He's leading the Argent Crusade in the vanguard!” She looked out ahead of her, as if she could see through the hull and driving rain and waves to see Highlord Tirion’s ship.  “He’ll lead us to victory.”

“Hero worship.  I should be surprised, but I'm not.  Tirion Fordring is just a man like you or me.” Again, Mardynn felt a hint of something more, some hidden emotion just below the surface. “A great man, but don't put your hope in great men.  They’ll always let you down, eventually.”

Ehldrenor shook his head.  “The leader does not make the war, but the king of Stormwind is here with us, too.  As well as Lady Jaina.”

“Jaina is here?”  Mardynn wasn't surprised, but she'd heard the stories of Jaina’s power.  And her fury.  “Even though we’re working with the Horde?”

“Mongrels,” grunted Islorus.  “You weren’t alive when the orcs invaded, so let me tell you.  Proudmore had the right idea.  Both of ‘em.  They deserve death.”

Ehldrenor gave him a sharp look.  “Most of the orcs who were present during those wars are dead.  Do not blame the son for the sins of the father.”

“And Hellscream?  The Iron Horde?  What about them?”

Ehldrenor sighed.  “One orc’s failing, no matter how powerfully placed, does not dictate the morality of an entire race.  They are not demons.  They are people, just as we are, and they have faced their fair share of struggles.  Do not forget that it was demons who made them who they are.”

“I'm surprised to hear you say that, Ehldrenor.  Um, sir.  I mean…” She suddenly regretted speaking.  “They slaughtered your people, didn't they?  If anyone had a reason to hate, it would be you.”

Ehldrenor was quiet for a few moments.  The motions of his rag paused. He looked down at it, as if trying to find his reflection in its sheen.  “The Old Horde took everything from me.  They killed more of my people in a few years than the Burning Legion managed in twenty thousand years.”

Mardynn didn't know what to say.  Even Islorus had enough sense to stay quiet for the moment.

“I saw so many of my friends and family die, Mardynn.  Innocents.  Children.  The orcs gave no regard for what they plundered and killed.”  His voice strengthened, and he nodded, as if to himself.  “But the Light redeems.  The orcs were tricked by a power they could not hope to defy as they were, and many of those who remain have made their amends.”

“It's not just orcs that make up the horde, friend.  That bitch Windrunner is leading their forces here, too.  She’s committed atrocities on my people.  And all humans!  What if she decides the best option is to plague the Broken Shore?  It'll be the Wrathgate all over again.”

“That wasn't Sylvanas,” Ehldrenor commented mildly.  “Those were rebels.”

“Islorus, I don't mean to be rude, but aren't you undead, too?” Mardynn asked.  “What's the difference?”

“It's not about being undead.  Light.  It's about conduct.  The Forsaken are monsters.  We death knights don’t replenish our numbers.  We don't make _more._ They have Light-forsaken _factory lines_ of val’kyr raising people from the dead whether they want to be or not.  And the plague!  The Lich King created the plague, and they still use it.  They've made it _worse_.  How can you trust a group like that?  They're all dangerous and insane, down to the last bloody rotting skeleton.”

Mardynn thought about this.  The idea sent an icy pick of cold through her stomach.  “So it's true?  I thought Sylvanas’ plague was just a rumor.  Do you really think they'll use it here?  A plague wouldn't shut down the gateway.”

“I wouldn't put it past them,” he growled.  “Not for one second.  You'd better pray Vol’jin has got her on a tight leash.”

“We’re allies,” Ehldrenor murmured.  “If we cannot trust our own allies, then we have lost before we have even begun.”

“I _don't_ trust those Forsaken.  Vol’jin is a man of honor, far as I can tell, but Sylvanas does what she wants.” Islorus crossed his arms again, as if this were the last word he'd hear on the subject.

Ehldrenor simply shrugged, continuing his slow work on the shield.

Mardynn rolled over onto her stomach, resting her chin on her hands.   _Light._  Ehldrenor seemed like a good guy - and he was probably a couple of thousand years old, at least - but Islorus seemed like a man with real issues.  Good in a fight and an accomplished warrior, no doubt, if what he’d told her was true, but he was distrustful and angry.  She supposed she couldn't blame him.  Death Knights were more than a little ostracized by the general public.  He was probably traumatized, or something, too.  That's what happened to people in horrific situations.  She'd seen a lot of that in the abbey and the cathedral.

She sighed heavily.  How did she feel? If she stuck close to one of them, she supposed she’d feel a lot safer.  That niggling acid feeling wouldn't leave her gut, no matter how she tried to justify it to herself, and she felt sick.  She got a sudden idea and reached down to rummage under the bed.  If she could just find… There.

She pulled a small leather book from her pack, along with a permanent ink pen she’d saved and saved to purchase with her pittance of an allowance at the cathedral.  She opened it, after a moment, smiling at the first entry.   _Dear diary… It’s only three days before I'm fully raised as a member of the clergy!_  That had only been a short time ago, not long after the Iron Horde’s incursion, and she'd already filled more than half of the pages of the little ledger.  Some pages were journal entries, some were bits of half-remembered poetry and song, some were informal prayers to the Light.   _The Light shine upon me, in all that I do, illuminate my mind and guide my hand._ For anything that wasn't an immediate effect, like healing, the act of inscribing the prayer onto paper seemed to make it more real to her.  More powerful.  It wasn't a popular opinion amongst the priesthood, but it was one she’d held onto.

She shook the pen and muttered a few words, activating the spell.  Permanent ink quills were all the rage these days, but they were expensive and fragile.  Frankly, it was probably a bad idea to bring it to war, but she needed the comfort.  She also wasn't confident in her ability to wrangle an ink pot on the rolling sea.

She imagine splashing ink all over Islorus’s jet black fur and giggled a little.  He eyed her grumpily, but didn't say anything.

_Light,_ she began, and almost immediately the ship bucked, and sent a swirl of ink down the side of the page.  It wasn't quite ruined, but it was an annoyance.  She grumbled, resetting the quill in her fingers as she continued to write.   _This is the hardest challenge you've ever set in my path.  I am unworthy of your grace, but I know you would not set me a challenge that I could not overcome.  I have faith in myself,_ this was not quite a lie, _and faith in my king, and faith in the Alliance.  Fill me with your radiance and let me use your glow to keep the other soldiers safe._ Even Islorus, she thought with a faint smile.  

Ehldrenor, surprisingly, was the one to interrupt her thoughts.  “What are you writing, child?”

Mardynn blushed slightly.  “Oh, it's just, you know.  A prayer.  For you and me, and even him.”  She nodded over at Islorus, who rolled his eyes.  “You've, um.  You've been a servant of the Light a lot longer than I have.  It'll protect us, right?”

Ehldrenor nodded.  “In this life or the next, it will be there for us.”

“I hope it's there for us this life, honestly,” Mardynn said with a smile, then blanched.

Ehldrenor laughed a booming laugh.  “As do I, child.  As do I.”

There came a knock on the door, and Mardynn jumped.  She snapped the book closed without thinking, as if she were a child hiding secret information from a nosy parent.

“Hey!” came a wood-muffled squeaky voice from about the level of the bed.  “You all decent in there?”

Islorus snorted, and Ehldrenor looked up.  “We are.  Is that you, Sadie?  Come on in.”

Mardynn glanced aside.  “Sadie?”

“A mage I befriended on the first day of this journey.” Ehldrenor set his shield down beside the bed, leaning it as it had been before they’d begun speaking.  “She is a good person.”

The door squealed open on rusty hinges, and Mardynn recognized a dark little gnome with a messy shock of pink hair that she’d seen once or twice from afar on the voyage.  She wore a deep, slightly singed purple robe, and her eyes were wide and intelligent. “Eld?  You might want to see this.” Her bright green eyes flicked from person to person.  “The rest of you, too.  Come with me?”

Mardynn stood, hastily shoving her journal back under her bed.  She could finish the prayer in a minute - another bonus to writing them down.  You could put them down and pick them back up in a way that you couldn't with spoken prayer.  She was sure the Light would understand.

They walked out of the room single file, Ehldrenor following Sadie, followed by Mardynn, and finally the soft padding of Islorus’ paws.  She led them onto the deck of the ship, where the rain had mostly stopped.  The wind still howled, and the occasional droplets of rain were moving fast enough to feel like little pelts of hail.  The sails whipped and cracked, and sailors ran to and fro, grappling with lines and cursing.  The waters were grey, waves heaving up and down, and the sky overhead boiled.  There weren't any birds in sight - never a good sign, but Mardynn assumed they were simply taking shelter from the storm, as any intelligent creature would..

“What is it, gnome?” Islorus asked, eyes fixed on her.  “We should get back belowdecks before it gets worse again. We’re only getting in the way up here.”

“For once,” Ehldrenor said, “I concur with our worgen friend.  This isn't our place, yet.  The invasion has yet to begin.”

Sadie shook her head, her hair bouncing along behind.  “Just look,” she said, and pointed straight ahead with a stubby finger.

Mardynn squinted against the wind, turning to survey the front of the ship.

Then she saw it.

Far in the distance, the sky was lit up with an unnatural green glow.  A beam of solid light was shooting up from something that could only be the Broken Shore - more specifically, the Tomb of Sargeras, that horrible place of legend they had all heard rumors about.  Mardynn couldn't look away. It was… mesmerizing.  But at the same time, it was horrific.  Looking at it - thinking about the sheer power it must represent - pushed away all the comfort and confidence she'd managed to build up, filling the resulting space with abject terror.  

_the son of a bitch threw himself onto spikes to escape_

Suddenly, that didn't seem so incomprehensible to her.

“Light…” She whispered.

Even Ehldrenor and Islorus were silent.

They could feel it too.  She was sure of it.

That much magical energy… how could they stand against it?  How would any of them survive?  They’d all assumed the Legion would be weak here, that they were all but defenseless at this stage of the invasion.

That hideous beam of fel energy said otherwise.   _We're here,_ it whispered, _and we're here to stay.  Azeroth belongs to the Burning Legion now._

Mardynn forced herself to close her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.  She suddenly missed her staff very badly.  Clutching it always seemed to help, but it was stowed with the rest of her gear.  Goosebumps ran along her arms.  In… and out.  In…

And out.

_In this life or the next._

Was this it?  Was this the way it all stopped?

_The end of the world had begun._

**Author's Note:**

> So let me know what you think! Hopefully someone out there likes it, and wants more. If you do, please let me know!!


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